


To Malik, A Daughter

by faintyoungsun (sadlygrove)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Drabble, Father Figures, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 13:02:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1745588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadlygrove/pseuds/faintyoungsun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malik bites his cheek to keep from cursing as Altair smirks, falling backwards off the platform and into empty sky. With a gasp, his daughter runs forward, peeking out over the edge of the tower only to see Altair land gracefully in hay.</p><p>“It’s fine,” Malik soothes, patting her head. “He’s not dead, he--”</p><p>“Teach me how to do that!”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>The girl’s eyes are bright and shine like the sun. “Teach me how to fly, Father!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Malik, A Daughter

To Altair, two sons; to Malik, a daughter.

Malik’s marriage is one of tradition, one that had been arranged in his father’s will since Malik could barely walk. His wife is gorgeous, and has a voice like a bell ringing on a clear spring morning. She does not love him, but she cooks and cleans and gives him a child with his own blood flowing through its veins. For those simple things he is thankful and devoted to her, and loves her as much as an arranged marriage dictates.

“She’s beautiful,” Malik murmurs at the bedside. In his arm, the child wriggles and coos in his grasp, and he feels whole. The little bundle fits perfectly in the crook of his arm.

“Her eyes are the same as yours.” His wife smiles at them, her voice hoarse. It’s the first time that she has been able to remain awake for more than a few minutes. “I think you will make a fine father.”

Whenever his wife begins to talk like that, Malik feels a chill run up and down his spine. “Get some rest,” he whispers, leaning forward delicately to kiss her forehead. “I will take care of our daughter.”

His wife dies a few weeks later, and Malik feels sorry for his child; she will never know her mother. And she will not know another, for Malik will not remarry--he has no desire to, his father’s bloodline has been secured for another generation as far as Malik is concerned. He had never particularly cared for his own father, but Malik will make damned certain that his daughter cares for _him_. Malik will be the best father to her, he will give her the happiest childhood he can.

When Malik walks through the marketplace, a small hand clutches at his empty sleeve, his daughter following him past the carts and stands like a gosling after a goose. “What would you like for dinner?” It is one of the few nights that Malik has left Masyaf to others, one of the few nights his daughter will eat with him instead of a servant. 

“Halaweh and chicago cheese!”

Malik smiles to himself, stopping before a stand selling beautiful fruits. His hand slips behind her head and guides her forward, placing himself between her and the throngs of people at the market. “Isn‘t that something you eat for breakfast, rabbit?”

His daughter frowns, contemplating. “But it’s still food.”

He spoils her. “This is very true; it can be eaten at any time I suppose.” With ease, Malik stoops down and picks her up in his arm, holding her high above the market stands. “Pick out whatever you desire.”

When she is a little older, Malik has no qualms taking her to Masyaf, moving from their little house by the river to the Master’s quarters. He is worried that if he does not do this, she will forget him as much as a desert forgets water. 

The first day is spent giving her a grand tour of the compound Malik himself grew up in, showing her all of the ramparts and stables where he used to play. The assassins and rafiq are all bemused smiles as she follows Malik through the corridors, practically a princess in a castle.

Finally they walk to the highest tower, Malik eager to show his daughter the beautiful view. They take the steps slowly, her hand in Malik’s, questions tumbling from her lips. “Aren’t there any women in Masyaf? I haven‘t seen any.”

“Not many, rabbit. A few of the assassins’ wives, but not others,” Malik admits.

“So…” The young girl frowns. “I will have to marry an assassin if I want to live in Masyaf?”

Malik starts, nearly tripping on a stair. “That’s… that’s not…” 

“Oh!” They have reached the top of the tower. “Father, who is that?”

“Hm?” Malik lets loose a short breath of relief, thankful for the change in topic. There is a man in assassin’s garb at the edge of the tower, his back towards them--but Malik does not need to see his face. “You’re back early.”

“The assassination was easier than expected,” the man grunts before turning. As soon as he sees who is with Malik, an amused smile tugs at the scarred edge of his lips. “And who do we have here?”

Without waiting for Malik to respond, his daughter lets go of his hand and takes several easy strides forward until she is standing before Altair. She barely comes up to his stomach. “I am the Master’s daughter. Are you one of his assassins?”

Malik groans inwardly; of all he people for her to… 

The man’s eyes are filled with mirth beneath his cowl as he looks down at the girl. “I am.”

“May I have your name, please?”

“Altair.”

She looks up at him, jaw set the way Malik’s sets when he is considering something of great importance. Finally, she nods, satisfied with whatever she has seen. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“And I you.”

Malik clears his throat, wary of what else his daughter may say. “Altair. You will inform me of your mission later.”

“Of course.” 

“How is Maria,” Malik asks, changing the subject deftly. He has noticed his child’s eyes flitting between them curiously.

“In good health and foul temper, as always.” Altair backs slowly to the edge of the tower, to the wooden platform. “I will meet you later… Master Assassin.”

Malik bites his cheek to keep from cursing as Altair smirks, falling backwards off the platform and into empty sky. With a gasp, his daughter runs forward, peeking out over the edge of the tower only to see Altair land gracefully in hay.

“It’s fine,” Malik soothes, patting her head. “He’s not dead, he--”

“Teach me how to do that!”

“What?”

The girl’s eyes are bright and shine like the sun. “Teach me how to fly, Father!”

“Absolutely not.” Malik frowns; this is perhaps the first time he has ever denied his daughter any of her whims. “There shall be none of that.”

“But--”

“Come; it’s nearly time for lunch,” Malik sighs, scooping the girl up into his arm despite her protests.

“Then…” Her voice is hopeful in Malik’s ear, ringing clear like her mother’s had once. “I can ask Altair to teach me?”

“I forbid it,” Malik grumbles. Perhaps bringing her to the compound was a bad idea after all.

 

Altair sums it up beautifully the following night. “It will put ideas into her head if she stays here,” he says around bites of lamb. “Why did you bring her from the river?”

“Because I missed her,” Malik muttered, eyes glued to the moon outside the window. “I assume you miss your sons.”

“Of course; they will come here when they are of age.” Altair studies the brooding man, a wry grin tugging at his lips as he does so. “You know… according to some of the journals, there have indeed been female assassins befo--”

“Absolutely not,” Malik snarls, finally wrenching his gaze from the moon. “I would hate to see her even married to an assassin, let alone become one!”

Altair shrugs and returns his attention to his food, not even bothering to pick out the obvious hypocrisies. “You cannot hide her from the world forever, my friend.”

And Malik cannot, and he finds her not in the libraries or Master’s chambers, but instead outside in the blacksmith’s shop or stables or--heaven forbid his wife haunt his soul--the training ring watching the men fight.

He is going to have an aneurism at this rate, because he cannot keep track of the girl every single moment of the day, and there is hardly anyone in the compound immune to her charms. Or her glare. 

Where did he go wrong?

“It would be easier if you just gave in,” Altair says one day as they are leaning against the stone wall. 

They are watching the newest assassins in the ring, Malik’s daughter in the front row cheering with the blacksmith. For the first time in his life, Malik feels as if his authority has been completely and utterly usurped. And by a girl less than half his size. “And do what, let her become an assassin?”

“Or a compromise.”

“Since when have you turned into such a philosopher,” Malik snorts softly. Someone has been knocked out of the ring, and he can hear his rabbit’s shouts above the rest.

“Everyone’s a philosopher when they have children,” Altair shrugs.

“Hn. How is Maria?”

“Just fine.”

Another assassin is knocked out cold, and Malik watches his daughter cheer.

 

“What’s that?” The girl cocks her head to the side, taking the smooth arc of wood despite her confusion.

“A bow, of course.”

“Well, I mean why.” Small hands—not as small as they used to be—run over its length, plucking at the bow.

“It’s more of a compromise, I suppose,” Malik admits, sitting down on the end of the girl’s bed. “The training for archers is every other day, rabbit. On the ramparts where the sun rises.”

The girl’s eyes fill with surprise. “You’re condoning me becoming an archer?”

“I am condoning the _practice of archery_ ,” Malik corrects, more for his own sake than hers. “If you would desire such a thing, of cou--” His daughter is already in his lap, hugging him and laughing happily. 

“Oh, yes of course I do!” She laughs, kissing Malik’s cheek. “Thank you, thank you! You‘re the best!”

Malik returns her embrace with his arm, burying his face into her long hair and mumbling his praise.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written ages ago and I just found it on my hard drive. Can't wait to see how many other things I've forgotten.... _(:3 」∠)_ 
> 
> More may be added someday.


End file.
